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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446024">This will have a name eventually, probably</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frog_that_writes/pseuds/Frog_that_writes'>Frog_that_writes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hilda (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Rarepair, and you're just getting started, i have. no excuses for myself, literally what do i even tag this as, there's a lot of talk about squash, they're both just two disaster gays, you ever just write over 2k words about two unnamned character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:54:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,968</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446024</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frog_that_writes/pseuds/Frog_that_writes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Keeper of the Bell takes his leave from the bell tower for his two weeks off, the last thing he's expecting is to fall head over heels for a stranger at the farmers market. Trollberg has always been a breeding ground for surprises, though.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keeper of the Bell/ Farmer (Hilda)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I place the blame for this entirely on my sister. I'm really not sure who suggested it first, but at some point during our binge of season two, the idea of the farmer and the bell tower keeper came up. And then this was born. I have no other excuses to offer for myself, truly.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>By the time the bell tower keeper finished his month long shift, he was certainly looking forward to sleeping in his apartment, small though it may be. In an idealized world, he would have the next month off to unwind, taking up odd jobs in town and catching up on some well-earned rest after a stressful four weeks of the wall demanding his attention 24/7. Years of slowly declining funding and other veterans of the job retiring, however, meant the ugly reality was that the only other group that manned the bell were two scrawny kids barely out of school, who only worked part time. He was determined to make the best of his two weeks off, though, even if they were all too brief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It always felt strange, leaving the tower for his walk home after a month of relative isolation. Relative, of course, because it was physically impossible for any man to spend that long awake so there </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>another member in his crew. They were a person of few words, however, and, since they lived so close to the wall, commuted home at the end of their shifts, rather than sleeping in the tower as he did. It wasn’t that he never left, but when his work day was twelve hours of wall maintenance and staring at the trolls growing ever-closer to the human-made border, he preferred to spend most of the rest of that time while his partner worked sleeping, and not getting sucked into the drama of the city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was on his break, it was honestly somewhat of the same story. His first goal was always to get into his small bed as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the dust that had settled in his sheets in his absence. Far too soon his liking, he would get woken up by a growling stomach, and the nonsensical thought to go to his fridge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s how he was in his current predicament. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was never anything in his fridge when he got back, simply because it all would have gone bad had he not thrown it out a month ago. Sometimes there was a jar of pickles, or some sort of crackers shoved into a cabinet, but that was all. Maybe in the idealized world he had previously thought of, his salary as a bell keeper would be enough to justify having groceries delivered, but the ever decreasing funds kept that thought a mere dream as well. Which meant braving the city for the sake of shopping was his unfortunate reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He by no means considered himself a hermit, despite what well meaning family members had argued in the past, but he enjoyed his rather peaceful life. That was part of the reason he settled for higher rent and a smaller apartment for the trade off of no longer having roommates. Back when he was a scrawny kid no larger than his current young coworkers, he had come back from his month of work to be greeted by his friends and their joint-custody cat, but eventually something about the whole arrangement had begun to strike him as sad. He loved his job, but watching his friends grow closer and closer while he was only around six months of the year had grated on him, and it didn’t take long before he was signing a new lease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had only grown further apart after that, of course. It didn’t matter much to him though, he would always say. After all, it was hardly customary to remain friends with your uni classmates forever, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was pulling on his coat even as he thought all this, prepared to brave the Trollberg cold for groceries. He silently debated as he laced his shoes whether it was worth it to muster up the courage to wander the farmers market, noting that it should be in full swing by the time he made the trek halfway across town. He could always go to the store, it was even a much shorter walk, but every time he went to the grocery he gave into temptation to fill his basket with microwave meals, and which each passing day he realized more and more that he was no longer twenty, and eating as though he was would do him no favors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The farmers market it is, he decided with a small amount of resignation. He was sure that if someone could hear his thoughts they would never believe him when he claimed to not be a hermit, but going from the isolation of the tower to a bustling crowd rushing for the best produce in the middle of the city would overwhelm anyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing to be done for it, though, if he wanted to eat these next two weeks, He couldn’t survive on take-a-way anymore than he could frozen lean cuisine. At least the weather was bearable today, he thought as he walked, clutching his empty tote tighter to his body regardless. He couldn’t help it if he preferred to be curled up with a nice warm cup of coffee this time of year. The cold always seemed to seep down into his bones, making even the slightest movements of his joints a hassle. He was starting to sound far too old. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The market was blessedly less crowded than usual today. It may have been some combination of the cold, the early hour, or the fact that he was there on the far less popular Wednesday, most people preferring to do their shopping on Sunday when the market once more sprung up in the center of the city, but the crowds were surprisingly easy to navigate. Only once did he find himself nearly running into somebody, a blue haired young girl who was frankly doing most of the running-into. She shouted an apology over her shoulder as she dashed off though, and the two other children following her in a similar sprint did their best to keep out of his way, so he supposed it was alright. He even smiled a little bit as he watched them, remembering what it was like to be young and running headfirst into every day with vigor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now my daily adventure quota is filled with throwing cucumber sandwiches at trolls and buying homemade spaghetti once a month </span>
  </em>
  <span>he sighed to himself, adding his newly purchased items to his tote. He admittedly hadn’t been sure what to do with the tan bag featuring a single large bell with a smiling face his mother had gifted him before his first day on the job, but it had proved to be useful. After all, where else was he going to put all his dry noodles and loose tomatoes? Ah, the joys of farmers markets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His thoughts came up short as he turned and spotted a vendor he didn’t recognize, standing behind a table filled with various types of squash as he happily chatted away with a woman examining his pumpkins.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rather impressive produce isn’t what drew the bell-keeper’s attention though, no- that was the farmer himself. His freckled face, slightly pink from cold, was partially hidden behind his curly brown hair, which was getting tossed every direction from the wind. Taking in his large red jumper as well, all the bell-keeper could think was that he looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>soft. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That, and the fact that he looked confused. Oh, he was looking at him, that was probably why. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh god, he was looking at him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um, hello,” he started awkwardly. “I haven’t seen you around before?” He continued, not sure whether he had made a statement or a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh you haven’t I suspect,” the other man laughed, and he instantly felt more at ease. He couldn’t have been too terribly awkward if he was capable of laughing like that. “I’ve only in the past few weeks started selling here in the market.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he said, before remembering that he should better actually carry on the conversation. “Er, what’s that you have there?” He pointed in a vague direction on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The farmer’s brow furrowed. “A pumpkin?” The woman, who had moved on to digging through her purse, likely to find a wallet, snorted slightly, and he felt a blush that had nothing to do with the cold rising to his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I- I know,” he stuttered, trying to find a way to not look like a complete idiot. The farmer was still smiling at him, amusement clear on his features. “I meant beside it, there, that small squash? I don’t believe I recognize it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That part was true, at least. He wasn’t so disconnected from the world of produce as to not recognize a pumpkin, but his knowledge of vegetables didn’t quite extend to the lumpy colorful things on the table in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s butternut squash,” he explained. “One of my favorites. It grew rather well this year too!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case,” he said, mind already conjuring images of him trying and hopelessly failing at trying to find a way to cook these, “I’ll take three.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The farmer’s smile brightened then, and he decided it was worth re-budgeting his grocery plans for the next two weeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he wandered away, bag slightly heavier, it occurred to him that he hadn’t gotten the other man’s name. Well, that was fine. Trollberg may be a city in name, but it had all the charms of a small town. It was impossible to avoid running into someone for very long. They would meet again, he was sure of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The farmer had to admit he was both nervous and excited for his third time selling produce in the farmer’s market. He had set up on the two previous Wednesdays, and had done pretty well, all things considered, and he was sure he would do fine today as well. It was just so strange being around so many </span>
  <em>
    <span>people. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving outside the wall meant his life was rather quiet. Oh sure, there was the roar of trolls wrestling in his backyard and such, but in his opinion that noise was nothing compared to a crowded intersection at rush hour. He would fully admit that he liked his cozy quiet life beyond the wall, thank you very much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subsistence farming only got one so far, however, and even introverts such as himself needed </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>interaction with the outside world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The farmer’s market just went a bit beyond his definition of some, is all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s why he signed up for Wednesday’s only, those first few weeks. This weekend he would set up on Sunday as well, and that was sure to be a whole other fiasco. It was nice earning a little extra cash, and he enjoyed talking to his costumer’s, but all the ceaseless prodding at his produce and questions as to his soil quality was a bit draining. There were only so many times that he could explain that yes, I don’t use any pesticides and, of course I check my soil pH, before he started to consider packing up early, wondering if the sales he would miss were even worth it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when he encountered a cute mysterious man dressed like it was about ten degrees colder than it actually was, it was a welcome break. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurane, or Suzane, he was awful at names, stepped off to the side as she finally deemed his banana squash fit for her sons’ consumption, and the man walked closer, asking a few questions. Really, he’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely </span>
  </em>
  <span>convinced the man actually knew what a pumpkin was, the way he was so flustered, but he was awfully cute. A little bit of a mess, but so was he, so he really couldn’t complain. He especially couldn’t complain about the fact that he bought three of his butternut squash after just barely learning what they were even called. He hadn’t been lying when he said they were in favorites, but they weren’t always a crowd pleaser between pumpkins and delicita. Butternuts were awfully sweet, and that left them a little less versatile than some would prefer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered if the man had a sweet tooth before brushing the thought aside. If he didn’t know what they were called, he doubted he knew what they tasted like when he bought them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered vaguely what the man’s name was as he walked away, thinking that he would probably never have a chance to know. He went into the city so rarely, after all, and it always seemed that there were so many people bustling the streets. Crowds tended to swallow him whole, and he supposed the odds of spotting the mysterious man were slim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had suggested he’d gone to the market before, though, a sensible part of him reasoned. Maybe hope wasn’t completely lost. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Search: Squash recipes</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Search: Butternut squash recipes</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Search: How to cook butternut squash</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Search: Roasted butternut squash</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, he had already bought the damn things, he could at least try and find a simple recipe that would let him actually eat them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hoped somewhere the FBI agent who monitored his searches was proud of him, realizing he was eating a real vegetable for once. Was that meme still popular? God, he was too old for this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head to clear the fond nostalgia of a time when he had understood anything people were talking about on the internet, he started gathering the ingredients for the recipe he found, thankful that it was simple enough that he already had everything he needed. Honestly, the recipe seemed pretty bad-cook proof, considering all he had to do was cut the squash, mince some garlic, and throw it on a pan with some olive oil and seasoning. Then, he just put the tray into the already pre-heated oven, and set the timer, shuffling his way over to his couch while he waited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn't used to having to wait long for his food to finish cooking. Most of his meals were either ready-to-eat five minute microwave meals, or pasta made with store bought sauces. He supposed if he was apparently suddenly getting his life together, he should have probably started with eating protein and not more carbs, but he bought the squash and he was going to use it goddammit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fiddled about for half an hour, his mind reminding him that </span>
  <em>
    <span>most </span>
  </em>
  <span>people his age had things like hobbies or favorite shows to watch that meant they didn't sit around in silence while their food cooked. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Most people </span>
  </em>
  <span>also didn’t usually spend thirty-six weeks of their year living in their place of work either, he allowed. It wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely </span>
  </em>
  <span>his fault that he was probably the saddest thirty-five year old in the entirety of Trollberge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the timer on his oven dinged, he found his mind wandering back to the man from the market, wondering if they were around the same age. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties as well, but sometimes it was hard to tell such things. He had been told plenty frequently that he looked much older than he was. The bell-keeper chalked that up to the bags under his eyes, though. He had been fortunate enough to avoid any gray in his hair so far, but with the way his back ached now it was only a matter of time. Egh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He carefully scooped the squash from the baking sheet into a bowl with a spatula he had been pleasantly surprised to find crammed in the back of his knife drawer, before carefully making his way back over to the couch, not bothering to sit at his small dining table covered in junk mail and torn envelopes. He would clean that up eventually. Probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He ignored the fact that the last time he had shuffled the papers in a half-hearted attempt to pretend at cleaning, he had caught a date that ended in 2018 on one of the envelopes. They couldn’t have been sitting there for </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>long, right?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes widened at the first bite of the squash. Oh, this was </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was surprisingly sweet, and reminded him of the sweet potatoes his mom used to make as kids. His siblings, both younger and older, had always hated the side dish, which meant he usually ended up eating far more than he usually would have to prevent his mother feeling bad about wasting food. Despite that, he had never stopped liking it, and he felt that would probably be the case with this vegetable (fruit?) as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He idly considered how unhealthy of a meal it was as he continued eating, but dismissed the thought. It was still an improvement from the amount of sodium in campbell's chicken soup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would have to get some more, he decided, or maybe he could try something else that man had been selling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like he was looking forward to seeing him again or anything. That would be completely ridiculous. He was simply excited to try new food. That’s it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The farmer packed up his stand with equal parts relief and disappointment. He enjoyed chatting to the people of the city, and he certainly enjoyed someone buying the surplus crops he grew, but being in the city for so long was utterly </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausting. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The noise of the crowd and the constant scrutinizing of his food by every soccer mom with a screaming toddler worked impressively quickly to give him a headache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The quiet that slowly formed over the market as more and more vendors packed up their areas was a welcome change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all shouted greetings and made conversation as they set up, but the farmer realized quickly that there usually were no hearty goodbyes tossed to each other on the way out. He had yet to determine if that was because they were all as tired and headache-y as he was after hours in the bustling environment, or if it was for some other reason, but it was in relative silence that tables were folded and excess wares were placed in crates to take back home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The person next to him, who looked anywhere from their late teens to their early 20s with several piercings and a bright green under cut, who had brightly spent the day warmly greeting customers and had made casual chit-chat with him during lulls, scowled as they roughly repackaged their leftover knitted scarves and hats. He would probably never understand these city dwellers, they were just so strange to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next time he saw the strange man was, unsurprisingly, Sunday, when he once more set up in the market. Considering he has spent the past few days in his house outside the wall the chance of them somehow running into each other had been pretty slim, so he had honestly mostly forgotten about him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is, until he spotted him approaching his stand, this time looking a little less like he had no idea where he was. It was later than their first meeting to, and the farmer had honestly been planning to begin packing up soon. Sundays were busier than Wednesday’s, true, but it had been strangely quiet that day. All the soccer moms must be at practice, he figured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He briefly noted that the man was still wearing enough knitted gear that he looked like he was braving far worse weather than a chilly breeze. Not because he was distracted by the beanie pushing back his long brown hair, or the scarf being pushed down by his facial hair, or anything. No, he was a normal functioning adult who did not form spontaneous crushes on any kindly customers who looked cute. He swears he can function. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, fancy seeing you here,” he said before he could stop himself. Oh god, what a weird thing to say to an almost complete stranger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” the man parroted back, seemingly unbothered by the strange greeting. He shuffled his bag slightly, and the farmer couldn’t help but take a peek at the design. He had been curious about it during their first meeting, but had been unable to see it without seeming like a creep. Now though, the angle he was holding it at showed off the large yellow bell with a smiley face, faded enough that he could tell it had seen it’s fair share of years of use. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason, he found the silly design endearing. Oh god, this really was a crush. He was too old for this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was your squash?” He asked, to interrupt his own thoughts. So far, they had been doing a lot of staring at each other, and the knit-vender next to him was starting to throw him weird looks. He hoped they could telepathically hear him telling them to buzz off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was good!” The man said enthusiastically. “I ended up roasting it in the oven because that seemed like the easiest way to make it, and I’m frankly not a very good cook. I can make a mean cucumber sandwich though,” he finished with a laugh. The farmer sensed there was some sort of joke there he didn’t quite get, but he laughed along regardless. He had a nice laugh. Like bells, he thought ironically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds delicious,” he replied. “That’s usually how I make them too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They smiled at each other for a moment, before remembering, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh yeah, I’m here for a reason. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“So uh,” the man awkwardly scratched at his cheek. “I kind of know absolutely nothing about squash- are they fruit or a vegetable, by the way?- but I was hoping to try more so I just thought-” he took a deep breath “- is there anything in particular you would recommend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The farmer tried not to look too excited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well to answer your first question, they’re technically fruits in the way that tomatoes are fruits, I suppose? It’s a matter of where the seeds are, so scientifically they’re fruits, but they’re usually eaten as vegetables.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” the man said, squinting down at the table of squash as though they held some dark secret of biology.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But as for recommendations, if the butternut wasn’t too sweet for you, I’d recommend delicata-” he gestured to the round cream colored fruit in front of him, before also gesturing to the smaller and more yellow squash as the far end of the table “-or some acorn. They’re both also slightly sweet, though not as much as butternut, and they have less seeds in them. They go together fairly well, too. Oh! And, the skin is edible, so if you can’t be bothered to peel them, which I know is always a hassle, there’s always that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looked slightly overwhelmed for a moment, like he hadn’t been prepared for a mini-rant on the benefits of certain types of squash, before he nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take two of each.” He fished his wallet from the pocket of his slightly ridiculous coat that looked like a yellow rain-jacket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few moments later he watched as he walked away, kicking himself for once more forgetting to ask for his name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knit-person next to him snorted, but the farmer didn’t take away his eyes from the retreating figure as they began talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you have got it </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad </span>
  </em>
  <span>squash boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you have an essay to write or something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you have some social security to file for, old man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ouch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I can get your lover-boy to buy some gloves? He looked like he could use a new pair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you should ask him that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, what, you can’t ask him for me on your next date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you not dating?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you even know what his name is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit, you’re a disaster. This is hilarious. Good luck with that squash boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please do not call me that.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't know why I decided that both of these disaster gays need a nonbinary coworker/wing man, but it's too late to go back now. They won't play huge parts in this story, they'll just kinda be there to lightly bully them and try desperately to get them to stop awkwardly flirting and actually talk to each other. <br/>Them not knowing each other's names is a bit of a running gag, but they will have names eventually. I already have some in mind, but if you have any thoughts of your own, I would love to hear them. <br/>Eventually they will interact outside of the farmers market, but I do have this planned to be a semi- slowburn (medium burn? ig?) so they're not exactly getting engaged in three chapters. They do already like each other in a "oh, pretty stranger" way, but they're also grown adults and not 13 so they're not gonna form a relationship based on nothing lol <br/>Anyways, hope you all enjoyed! Not sure when the next update will be, but comments make me write faster (hint hint)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please leave a comment and a kudo if you enjoyed! I have some ideas for where I want this to go, but comments always inspire me to write more</p></blockquote></div></div>
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